


John Watson, Virgin Sacrifice

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Enemas, M/M, Virgin Sacrifice, desecration of world heritage sites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 16:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4398458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin.  No, John can’t believe it, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson, Virgin Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> So I’m sitting at my computer trying to think of motivation for a character, and it just came to me. _Ceremonial Virgin Sacrifice._ After I laughed myself silly for a few minutes – because it totally doesn’t work for the story I’d been working on – I wondered, “Yeah, but what if it was John Watson?”
> 
> This is what happens when you’ve got a four-month-old baby and are therefore sleep deprived.
> 
> Thanks to earlgreytea68, ladyprydian, and scienceofobsession for the beta, and for laughing at the right spots. They all made this so much better.

John Watson stared at his captor before he stuck his finger in his ear, wondering if maybe someone had shoved cotton into it while he’d been unconscious.

 

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” he asked. There wasn’t anything in his ear that he could tell, but maybe that knock on the head had jarred something loose anyway, because he could not have _possibly_ have heard the man right.

 

“It is a position of great honor,” said the man, who was probably meant to be tall and imposing and frightening, and really just looked somewhat stupid, what with the long druid’s robes and the bear mask and the _antlers_.  “You will be the keystone of the ceremony that will bring back the ravens to the Tower.”

 

“Yeah, mate, I don’t know if you heard, but they clip the ravens’ wings these days, the ravens haven’t gone anywhere,” said John, growing a bit impatient now.  “And anyway, I don’t think I really work as your sacrificial lamb here.”

 

“Nonsense,” said the man-bear-druid-person, in a voice muffled by several layers of clothing.  “You will make a fine virgin sacrifice for the gods.”

 

John banged his head back against the stone wall.  “Okay, right, but… _I’m not a virgin_.  I have had sex.  I have had _lots_ of sex.  _Fantastic_ sex.  I can give you a _list_ of women who would be more than happy to tell you how much sex I had with them.”

 

“That does not concern us.”

 

“It bloody well _should_ , if you’re looking for a _virgin sacrifice_.”

 

“Have you ever lain with a man?” demanded the man-bear-druid-person.

 

John’s mouth dropped open.  For some reason, he became all too aware of a certain part of his anatomy, currently pressed up against a far-too-thin mattress in the little stone cell somewhere under London.

 

“Then the part of you we are most interested in is most certainly _virginal.”_ And then the man-bear-druid-person _sodding wanker_ had the audacity to rest his hand on John’s flabbergasted head.  “The ceremony will begin at dawn.”

 

And then he left, John still staring in shock.  It was after the heavy metal door clanged shut that John howled. 

 

“ _I don’t think that’s the right definition of virgin at all!_ ”

 

*

 

It was some hours later – probably before dawn – when four figures wearing druid cloaks shuffled into John’s cell.  Their hoods were over their heads so John couldn’t see their faces, and they didn’t speak a word as they set to work, carefully stripping John of the clothing he wore.

 

“Good morning to you wankers, too,” said John, annoyed from the manhandling as well as from the shitty sleep he’d had the night before – when he could manage to get to sleep.  The mattress was particularly thin and rather disgusting, and every half-way comfortable position John found seemed to automatically emphasize his arse and what was about to be done to it.  “Or does that render you unvirginal?  Because I’ve done that.  Lots of times.  Several times a day.  Ten minutes ago, actually.”

 

The druids didn’t say any words, they simply cut his shirt off with a pair of scissors, so as not to unlock his manacles.  Which was a shame, really, because John had already figured out how to take out at least two of them once his hands were free. 

 

Perhaps the druids were smarter than they seemed.

 

The druids worked quietly and efficiently, removing his shoes, socks, shirt, undershirt, and trousers, not even seeming to mind that John tried to make it as difficult for them as possible, refusing to move in ways that might make their jobs easier.  They were simply patient, patting and pushing until one limb or the other would shift enough for them to slide the fabric gently away. 

 

They only paused when at last they removed his pants.

 

“Yeah, that’s right,” said John, almost a smirk.  “Sure you want to waste that in lieu of my _arse_?”

 

The only answer was the appearance of a bowl of steaming water, and four cloths in four sets of hands.

 

“Oh, you have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” groaned John, as the four sets of hands started to give him what had to be the most intimate sponge bath he’d had since he was a baby.  Even the nurses in the army hospital after he’d been shot hadn’t been this familiar.  Or gentle, really.   The water was warm, smelled sweetly of lavender and a few other things John couldn’t name, and he had to admit – it was almost pleasant, having all the grime washed off of him.

 

“Oi!  Careful with the goods there!” yelped John as one of the druids began tenderly washing his cock and balls.  The monk didn’t seem to react – maybe they were deaf? 

 

And then two of the druids helped to ease him down to lie on his back, and they pulled his legs back and started to wash….

 

Well….

 

John was so shocked he couldn’t say anything at first.

 

And then he said _a lot_.

 

*

 

It was perhaps half an hour before sunrise, at the most, when the small procession walked out onto the green.

 

The vast majority of the walkers were druids, all wearing their dark robes with bare feet, hands folded together, heads bent under their dark hoods.  They chanted together, a sort of low moan that in any other context might have sounded rather lovely, if entirely lacking in meaning to a monolinguistic English ear.  In the dark, with the eastern horizon just turning into iridescent blue, it was almost haunting, hypnotic, heavy with intention and danger and excitement.

 

In the dead center of the group was John Watson, bare of foot and bare of head and bare just about everywhere else, except for the thin, gauzy garment he wore.  It was cut after a similar pattern to the druid’s cloaks, but instead of heavy wool, it was made of the lightest white gauze, woven loosely so that it was nearly transparent.  The robe tied from his neck to his knees with white ribbons, and the sleeves were full, gathered at his wrists in additional ribbon.  There was a hood as well, though this hung at his back.

 

The robe might have left little to the imagination, but it did serve its purpose, smoothing the scars and rough spots, and leaving only the barest hint of the softness of John’s skin, the thickness of his muscles, the power that simmered under the thin wisps of fabric.

 

John Watson was beautiful.

 

John Watson was also _fuming._

 

He was exhausted, having not slept well the night before.  He was hungry, having not been given anything but cold water to drink.  He was barefoot, and the ground, though covered in thick, soft grass, was also littered with stones and twigs. 

 

And he was about as clean as he had ever been in his entire life.  The druids, thank _Christ_ , had stopped only at washing the exterior of his body, and not actually violated him.

 

No, they’d left _that_ pleasant task for him to complete, by way of the bucket full of enema supplies they’d left behind when they exited his little stone cell. 

 

John had been hoping to go his entire life without having to give himself an enema. 

 

John was going to kill every single fucking _one_ of them.

 

The fabric swished and swirled at his ankles as he walked, a faint whisper under the sonorous chanting of the druids who surrounded him and led him to the center of the stone circle.  John was so angry, he didn’t even notice the standing stones until he was nearly on top of them.

 

“Oh, Good Christ,” he groaned over the melodious chanting.  “ _Stonehenge?_   You have got to joking.”

 

“We seek to honor our gods in the old ways,” said the druid with the bear mask and the antlers.  He was standing in the center of the circle, next to a large rock platform that John could swear did not actually exist at Stonehenge.  Maybe they’d trucked it in.

 

“Okay, you know the ancient druids didn’t actually commit human sacrifices here, right?” said John as the druids led him to the platform.  He crossed his arms and glared, but that didn’t stop the other druids from lifting him up by the elbows and depositing him on the stone platform.  Exactly like he was the sacrificial lamb.

 

Which he supposed he was.

 

God _damn_ it.

 

“Wasn’t Stonehenge meant to be a calendar system?” asked John, trying to quell his nerves.  Fuck.  This was actually happening.  Fucking wanking sodding pissing _toadstools_ of a rat-faced bloody minister of sodding finance, _where the fuck was Sherlock?_ Shouldn’t he have been there to _rescue_ him by now?

 

“Modern archeologists are so boring,” said the antlered druid, and there was something about the way he said it that made John’s mouth drop open in shock.

 

“Wait a minute….”

 

The main druid turned to his compatriots rapidly, almost as if he was suddenly afraid of being called out, and lifted his arms to the eastern sky, which was rapidly going from a deep turquoise to an electric blue.  “Oh, gods, we bring you this _virgin sacrifice_ , who is _absolutely virginal_ or at least is in one aspect, and trust that you will find his _virginity_ to be _acceptable_ ….”

 

“FINE, FINE!  I HAD SEX WITH MYCROFT, SHERLOCK.  FANTASTIC SEX WHERE HE PUT HIS GREAT BIG COCK IN MY ARSE.  WHICH MEANS MY ARSE IS NO LONGER VIRGIN.  ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?”

 

The sun peeked over the horizon.  The antlered druid spun around in one fluid movement and pointed right at John.  “ _Ha!_   I knew it.”

 

“YOU FUCKING WANKER!” roared John, just before he leapt from the dais as if to knock Sherlock to the ground.  Sherlock was too quick – or too lucky, and managed to sidestep him, though his antlers slipped a bit.  “Is that what this is about?”

 

“I _knew_ there was something,” crowed Sherlock.  Sherlock was practically dancing in place; the bear mask hung at his neck and the antlers tipped at a dangerous angle.  John had to duck backwards to make sure he wasn’t accidentally impaled.  “You were both so _twitchy_ the other day.  And you spoke too fast.  Did you really think not looking at each other was going to _hide_ anything?”

 

“There’s nothing to hide,” snapped John, still fuming.  “Good Christ, Sherlock.  _Druids_?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Homeless Network.”

 

“Oh, of course,” said John, mocking.  “What the bloody _fuck_ , Sherlock?”

 

“Are you _seeing_ each other now?” demanded Sherlock.

 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no.  It was a one-time thing born out of a single incredibly frustrating night – the sole frustration of which, I should mention, was _you_.  I doubt Mycroft even remembers, let alone cares.  Someone get me a fucking jumper, it’s freezing out here.”

 

Sherlock snorted and waved his hand.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft doesn’t _delete_ things.  It’s why it takes him so long to accomplish anything.”

 

John groaned and rubbed his face with his hand.  “Great.  The only reason I’ve been able to talk to him is because I assumed he deleted the entire bloody experience.”

 

“Was it that bad?”

 

John dropped his hand to stare at Sherlock.  “You cannot honestly tell me you want to _know_.”

 

“Of course not.  That’s why _I_ delete things.”

 

John remembered the enema.  “It was the best night of my life.  Your brother took me to heights I never _dreamed_ were possible.  I screamed so loudly I’m _still_ hoarse.”

 

Sherlock paled, just a bit, which probably meant that the enema had been avenged.  Not that it would stop John from using it in the future.  One did not let impromptu enemas slide by lightly.

 

“But it doesn’t matter,” continued John, “because he doesn’t want it to happen again.  He hasn’t rung, or written, or even kidnapped me since then.  The bloody CCTV cameras don’t even follow me down the street.  I like to think I can speak Holmesease pretty well, and I’d say that’s a pretty obvious sign that he doesn’t care to repeat the experience.”

 

“Mmm,” said Sherlock.  “That’s probably why he hasn’t followed you in a helicopter.”

 

“What?” said John.

 

Sherlock pointed, just as the helicopter appeared on the horizon, heading straight for the stone circle.  It seemed to be moving at a brisk pace, and John could just make out the single driver with a very intent look on his face. 

 

“Oh,” said John, a bit weakly.

 

Sherlock clapped his hands together.  “Well,” he said cheerfully.  “Not as much as a one-night stand as you might have thought.  I’d best be leaving before he arrives, they’ll open up for tourists in another three hours, John, do keep that in mind.  Mycroft can’t buy off _all_ the papers.”

 

“Wait – you’re _going_?”

 

“Bad enough to have _heard_ about it, I don’t want to witness anything.  I already have to burn off bits of my brain now,” said Sherlock, already backing out of the circle.  The other druids were already halfway across the field, their druid robes hiked up around their knees as they ran.  “Shame to waste the dais, though, it took an age to drag it up here.”

 

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

 

But Sherlock was gone – not that he would have heard John over the roar of the helicopter’s rotors as it landed just on the other side of the stone circle.  John turned to face it, suddenly all too aware of his transparent robes and the very expansive stone platform in the center of the circle.

 

And then there was Mycroft, who alighted from the helicopter with such a look of worry on his face – and worry that was directed solely for _John_ ….

 

 

Never let it be said that John Watson was one to waste a perfectly good enema.

 

Or a perfectly good stone dais.

 

 


End file.
